What Do Bruno Mars and Queso Dip Have In Common?
by The Star Room
Summary: "Oh yeah, I'm sure the star quarterback would love getting dunked in holy water halfway through the game." / Or, Castiel, Dean and Sam gather around the television to watch the 48th annual Super Bowl.


Castiel handled the queso dip gingerly. It sloshed at the edges of the bright red bowl, threatening to spill over onto Bobby's already dusty hardwood floors. The sound of Queen Latifah belting "America the Beautiful" rose from the television set, distracting the angel as he sat down at the coffee table.

Before him were ten pieces of paper, arranged in a symmetrical diagram. Scrawled across the surface in Castiel's hurried handwriting were football statistics – the best NFL players in the league, their positions, their numbers, all their information. Everything. It was all there, in a combination of English and Enochian.

On one side were the Seattle Seahawks. NFC. Second Superbowl appearance. Russell Wilson. Richard Sherman. Marshawn Lynch. Doug Baldwin. The names went on and on, and Cas struggled to make sense of them. The team looked … good. _I think_, Cas thought, sighing to himself. American traditions often eluded him.

On the other side, there were the Denver Broncos. AFC. Seventh Superbowl appearance. Peyton Manning. "Omaha." Julius Thomas. Wes Welker. Terrance Knighton. In Cas' opinion, this team _also _looked "good." Football was complicated.

He scooped queso dip onto a tortilla chip and scrutinized the television screen, frowning as the teams competed in a coin toss. The Seahawks won the strange game, calling "tails." Castiel didn't know what this meant, but assumed it was somehow good for Seattle.

"Time for kickoff yet?"

Castiel looked over his shoulder to see Dean sauntering over, his hair still wet from the shower. He was wearing a Broncos jersey and a Seahawks jacket, both freshly purchased from Walmart – Dean had neglected to remove the tags, both of which dangled from his neck like paper appendages.

"I was under the impression fans must pick their favorite team," Cas said, studying Dean's choice of apparel. "Or may both sides win?"

Dean grinned, grabbing a beer from the cooler by the TV set. "Nah, only one team can win. But we've been a little busy lately –" he said this matter-of-factly, trying not to think of all that had _happened _lately – "and I haven't had time to check on football stats. So why not root for both?"

"I believe that's called cheating," Cas answered, but he smiled.

"Never stopped me before," Dean said, winking. "What about you, Sherlock? Deduced anything from your records?" He nodded towards the papers on the coffee table. They were now stained with cheese – Cas had spilled the queso after all.

"I'm not much of a statistician," the angel admitted, "and I can't say I understand the sport of football. But I believe Peyton Manning is favorable. Although," here he paused, sorting through his notes again, "Seattle's defense seems to be winning most of the Internet's polls, even after Richard Sherman's comments—"

"Did I miss anything?" Cas was interrupted by the sound of Sam's voice, who walked into the living room a few seconds later. In his arms was a heaping plate of barbeque ribs, fresh off the grill.

"Nothing but Cas' sports analysis. He's going to be working for ESPN within the next year," Dean replied, plucking a rib off of Sam's plate.

Sam laughed. "It's about time one of us got a real job."

"Quiet," Cas said, and pointed towards the television. "The invisible men are telling us it's time for the game to begin."

"Invisible men?" Sam glanced at Dean.

"Sports commentators," Dean explained, sipping his beer.

"Ah."

The trio watched the first several plays of the game, Dean sitting at the edge of his chair and Sam resting with his feet on the table. Castiel was still, his fingers clasped before him as if in prayer.

When the Seahawks trapped Peyton Manning in the endzone, earning a safety, the angel was visibly confused. Dean was up and clapping, hooting at the screen and spilling his beer, but Cas stared at his diagrams, certain something was wrong.

"Manning is not supposed to play in this manner," he said. "Safeties are unusual to begin with, but this is unprecedented. Manning is a star quarterback. Unless…"

"Unless what?" Sam asked, trying not to sound amused.

"We have to go to New York. Right now," Castiel said, standing up from the sofa and pushing the tortilla chips away.

"What are you going on about, Cas?" Dean asked. "The game just started."

Castiel took a deep breath, and looked his closest friend in the eye.

"I believe Peyton Manning may be possessed by a demon."

It took a moment for the Winchester brothers to process what their angelic companion was saying. Once it hit them, however, it was difficult for either one of them to restrain themselves.

Dean lost it completely. He burst into laughter – genuine, uncontrolled fits of laughter that had him doubled over. Sam followed him shortly thereafter, spurred on by the puzzled look on Castiel's face.

"This is not funny, boys," Cas told them, his eyebrows furrowed. "A young man's life may be at stake. Not to mention the integrity of the Superbowl."

Dean stood back up, looking at Castiel with a mix of amusement and affection. "Cas, I'm gonna have to start inviting you to all of my Superbowl parties. Heck, you're even more fun than drunk Sam during halftime."

"Shut up." Sam shot his brother a look, but he was still grinning from Cas' comment.

"What are you saying?" Cas asked. He gazed between the two brothers, searching for an answer. "This is our job. We are Team Free Will. We stop demons."

"Peyton Manning isn't possessed by a demon, Cas. He's just making stupid mistakes. Humans do that sometimes," Sam said, smiling gently. He looked the calmest he had in months, Cas noticed. He looked normal.

"Are you sure?" Cas looked for approval from Dean, who nodded.

"Yeah, trigger-happy. Manning's just having a bad start. It happens all the time."

Castiel didn't look so certain, but he retreated back to his position on the couch. "Fine. But if there are any more safeties, we are obligated to assess the situation."

"Sure thing. I'm sure the Broncos' star quarterback would love getting dunked in holy water halfway through the game."

"We could just slip it into his Gatorade," Sam joked, tossing a Lays potato chip into his mouth.

"Or cover the football in salt."

"Douse the field with holy fire."

"Stick an iron rod at the 50-yard line."

"No, no, spraypaint the turf with a Devil's Trap."

"That's enough," Cas interrupted, his eyes on the TV. "I'm not so naïve I can't tell when you two are mocking me."

"We aren't mocking you, Cas," Sam said, flashing a grin. "We just don't exactly have the credentials to interfere with the National Football League."

Cas cocked an eyebrow at him. "Oh, and you have the credentials to interfere with Lucifer? Start the Apocalypse? Team up with Crowley? Fight Abbadon?"

Dean and Sam were silent.

Castiel took a rather ferocious bite of a barbecue rib and said, mouth full of food, "That's what I thought."

A moment later, Dean smirked, shaking his head slowly, as if he couldn't believe how much and how little had changed over the years. Sam glanced at his brother, questioning. "I taught him that," Dean explained, gesturing towards their angel friend. "Cas. I taught him how to be snarky. He was an attentive student."

Sam could only roll his eyes.

* * *

About two hours later, Dean and Sam had to forcibly drag Castiel back into the living room.

"The Seahawks are winning 36-0!" The angel exclaimed, struggling against them. He pushed Sam away from his shoulder. "There is no question about this. It's demonic interference, that's the only explanation!"

"Yeah, and Bruno Mars is my grandmother," Dean muttered between gritted teeth, shoving Cas back onto the couch.

"That's impossible, Dean. You and Bruno Mars have completely different melanin levels, not to mention Bruno Mars is of the masculine sex—"

"He was kidding, Cas," Sam said, "but we're both serious about this: there are no demons turning the tides of this game. It's just football. It's unpredictable."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Well, for one thing, we haven't seen any black or red or white eyes in the camera lens, have we?

"No, but—"

"The Broncos just scored, Cas," Dean said, facing the television and taking a swig of his third beer. "With a two-point conversion. I don't think demons know how to score two-point conversions."

"And you don't know how to do long division, " Cas retorted. "That doesn't mean you can't be possessed."

"I can _too _do long division!"

"Castiel," Sam interrupted. "Seriously. Sit down. Have a drink. I swear to you nothing is going on at the MetLife Stadium."

Cas sat down at the coffee table once more, throwing back a shot of whiskey. "This sport is stress-inducing. I don't understand why Americans enjoy it."

"Well, most Americans don't have a panic attack every time the Seahawks score."

"Unless they're Broncos fans," Dean said, siphoning a handful of M&Ms into his mouth. "I bet those guys are just having the time of their lives," he tried to say, although it came out sounding "Aybez dos geyser havin timusherlyfe."

"The score is 43-8 now," Cas muttered, pouring himself another shot. The brothers watched this and suppressed further laughter. The angel became an alcoholic grandpa when he was frustrated.

"Cas, the last time you were drunk, the world was ending. Is a blowout football game really that bad?"

"According to , this is the most important televised event of the entire year. Isn't that what you call 'a big deal'?" he asked, and his face was innocent. He wasn't trying to cause a scene. He wasn't trying to frustrate his friends. Dean realized suddenly that the angel was only trying to fit in, to get acclimated to popular culture, now that the trio finally had some time where they weren't stopping the latest supernatural crisis.

Dean slid onto the couch next to God's fallen warrior, and dipped his chip into the guacamole bowl. "Yeah, Cas. It's a big deal. It's a huge, earth-shattering, apocalyptic kind of deal." He gave his goofiest smile, knowing full well that his mouth was full.

Castiel couldn't keep himself from returning the smile. It twitched at his lips, though he fought it, and he clanked his glass against Dean's.

"Here's to blowouts," Sam said, and the three of them lifted their beer bottles and toasted a horrible Superbowl game.

* * *

An hour later, Sam was on dish duty and Dean was watching _Brooklyn 9-9_. Castiel sat beside him on the couch, leafing through the latest issue of _Car and Driver_, trying to understand what made the Jeep Grand Cherokee "truly superior."

"Why don't you have a Jeep Grand Cherokee?" Cas asked, turning the page and studying the medium-sized SUV.

"Because I have a 1967 Chevy Impala," Dean replied, as if this was an explanation in and of itself.

"Mmm. But the Impala does not have Sirius Radio."

"No, it doesn't. And the Impala doesn't _need_ Sirius Radio."

"There's a classic rock Sirius station. It's called Classic Rewind. I listen to it when I'm travelling, in the hopes that perhaps I'll understand why you like songs titled 'You Shook Me All Night Long.'" He shuddered at this, as if the sinful song itself could permeate his skin.

"How do _you_ listen to Sirius Radio?" Dean asked. "Your car is a rickety pimp van."

Castiel turned to search the pockets of his trenchcoat, and eventually pulled out a thin white iPod. "I'm 'getting with the times,'" he replied, looking rather smug. "Perhaps you should do the same."

"Perhaps you should shut your piehole."

"I'm with Cas on this one!" Sam shouted from the kitchen, over the sound of the running sink and dishwasher. "We could use some different music in the Impala."

"Y'know, just for that comment, I'm going to play the same Asia song on repeat for the duration of our next road trip!" Dean yelled back, twisting over the couch to get a good look at Sam. His brother cracked up, nearly dropping the soapy beer glass in his hands.

Castiel watched the two of them banter, and almost wondered if he should leave them to it. It was somehow incredibly calming to be here, sitting on a worn leather couch, watching the Winchesters act like a couple of raucous teenagers instead of battle-worn vessels. He was so used to seeing anger and hurt in their eyes, that to see them laughing was a greater relief than he ever would have expected. He'd been concerned there for a while … concerned that maybe the Winchester boys could never be who they once were.

But, here they were, after everything, getting tipsy off Gentleman Jack and laughing at the same awful jokes Cas still didn't understand.

They gave him hope. Even after everything, they gave him hope. They had turned a crappy Superbowl game into the entertainment event of the century, and Cas, for the first time in a long time, was happy.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he said after a moment. "For believing Peyton Manning was possessed. I acted before thinking, it was uncharacteristic of me, I should have—"

"Nah, you behaved like a true football fan – belligerently and irrationally and generally like a giant dick," Dean said. "But whatever. Besides, it's nice to be wrong about demonic activity every once in a while, isn't it? It's nice to be normal."

Cas gazed at his friend, trying to read him. "Dean, we are not normal."

"Nope. Not even a little bit," Dean agreed. "But we do have our moments."

Dean leaned forward, nabbing one last scoop of queso dip. As the cheese dribbled down his chin, Sam cranked up the radio in the kitchen, and even Cas had to admit that tonight had been a little bit – just a _little_ bit – like normal human life.

He had to admit … he rather liked it.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So I was watching the Superbowl tonight and, uh, this happened. I understand it's pretty crack-y, but, hey, it was a blast to write and a good comedy exercise. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know what you think.


End file.
